Authors: David Poyer
The Passage (6 page)
CHARLESTON
U.S. Naval Base, Charleston, South Carolina
T
WO months after
Barrett'
s commissioning, Lenson squinted into his stateroom mirror. His head pounded; his teeth hurt; his hair smelled like smoke. He'd been out late attacking the Fleet Bar's fifty-cent double martinis. His bike was still there. Fortunately, the ship was moored at Pier Juliet, close enough for him to stagger back to his bunk.
WO months after
Barrett'
s commissioning, Lenson squinted into his stateroom mirror. His head pounded; his teeth hurt; his hair smelled like smoke. He'd been out late attacking the Fleet Bar's fifty-cent double martinis. His bike was still there. Fortunately, the ship was moored at Pier Juliet, close enough for him to stagger back to his bunk.
He closed his eyes, remembering Palma de Mallorca, when he'd stayed at the Brasserie till the taxis stopped running and had to walk eleven miles back to fleet landing. He'd made it just before dawn and collapsed on a bench by the seawall, waiting for the early boat. He'd come to with an old man groping him, muttering love Spanish.
He grimaced, felt around in the cabinet, and swallowed three commissary aspirin. He pulled on khakis and headed down the passageway.
Barrett
's wardroom was luxurious compared with those of the ships he'd served on before. The carpet was deep blue. Armchairs covered in blue leatherette ovaled a dining table. The sitting area had a coffee table, corner sofas, and built-in bookshelves, though the only books yet were Crenshaw and Knight and
Customs and Ceremonies.
The bulkheads were off-white and the overhead pierced steel, with fluorescents too bright for a hangover. A gray joiner door led out to officers' country.
's wardroom was luxurious compared with those of the ships he'd served on before. The carpet was deep blue. Armchairs covered in blue leatherette ovaled a dining table. The sitting area had a coffee table, corner sofas, and built-in bookshelves, though the only books yet were Crenshaw and Knight and
Customs and Ceremonies.
The bulkheads were off-white and the overhead pierced steel, with fluorescents too bright for a hangover. A gray joiner door led out to officers' country.
“Mr. Lenson, what can I get you? Hash bacon eggs, grits corn muffins.”
“Just coffee. And some battery acid.”
As he waited, he looked down the table. The other men at it wore khakis, the usual in-port uniform, except for Giordano, who was in coveralls.
Dan remembered the light cruiser he'd served on during his
third-class cruise. The wardroom was lily white then; a Catholic or a Jew was exotic.
Barrett
reflected a changing Navy. The majority was still Caucasian, but Burdette Shuffert, Dan's fire control officer, was black; so was Glenn Crotty, the main propulsion assistant, and Martin Paul, the first lieutenant. The operations officer was Felipe Quintanilla, a dark stocky man with a Hispanic accent that got stronger when he was excited. He'd grown up in a family of migrant farmworkers and managed to get himself appointed to the Naval Academy.
third-class cruise. The wardroom was lily white then; a Catholic or a Jew was exotic.
Barrett
reflected a changing Navy. The majority was still Caucasian, but Burdette Shuffert, Dan's fire control officer, was black; so was Glenn Crotty, the main propulsion assistant, and Martin Paul, the first lieutenant. The operations officer was Felipe Quintanilla, a dark stocky man with a Hispanic accent that got stronger when he was excited. He'd grown up in a family of migrant farmworkers and managed to get himself appointed to the Naval Academy.
His musings on sociological change were interrupted by one of the ensigns, talking to Ed Horseheads, who was scanning the morning paper. “What's the news, Mister Ed?”
“The usual shit. Castro's making hostile noises again.”
“Anything else?”
“Threadfin,
that sub they lost. There's an article says it was probably a flaw in the welding.”
that sub they lost. There's an article says it was probably a flaw in the welding.”
“Welding, shit! The fucking Commies sank it.” A lean, grizzled man in an old-style foul-weather jacket stenciled uss ENTERPRISE pulled out a chair next to Dan. He wore a knife and a flashlight in a black leather holster, aviator-style glasses, and had whitewalls to his haircut, though he was going thin on top. “Caught it out there alone and dropped the hammer on it. Morning, shipmates.”
“How's it going, Chief Warrant?”
“I've had it better, but I've paid more.”
CWO3 Jay Harper was the C3M officer, short for command, control, and communications maintenance, though most still called him the electronics maintenance officer. Dan had seen a lot of him since commissioning, since Harper was also the combat systems test officer, responsible for accepting the sensors and weapons as the yard finished installing them. This had made it awkward for Dan, taking over. The captain had developed reflexes, and even now, when something was wrong, he'd pick up the phone and call Harper. Dan was trying to cure him of that.
“Look like you got up on the leeward side, Lieutenant. Out steaming last night?”
“Cracked a couple. You, Chief Warrant?”
“Pussy and booze don't affect me like it does you young guys. Want me to take officers call?”
“I'm on deck. We ready for the conference?”
“Right after quarters.”
Horseheads, still deep in the paper: “Christ, you see this? About the chief getting murdered?”
“What's that, Mister Ed?”
“Told you, J. J., call me that again and I'll shove a horseshoe up your ass.”
“One of our chiefs?” said Dan.
“No, no. Yeoman chief on the
Biddle.
His wife was banging this guy who works at a Seven-Eleven. When the chiefs in port, the guy works nights. He's at sea, the guy works days. Chief deploys, he moves in. Finally, he gets back from the Indian Ocean a week early and finds them both there. The wife hands the guy a knife, he ventilates the chief about twenty times, and the cops catch them hoisting him into a Dumpster.”
Biddle.
His wife was banging this guy who works at a Seven-Eleven. When the chiefs in port, the guy works nights. He's at sea, the guy works days. Chief deploys, he moves in. Finally, he gets back from the Indian Ocean a week early and finds them both there. The wife hands the guy a knife, he ventilates the chief about twenty times, and the cops catch them hoisting him into a Dumpster.”
“Any kids?”
“A boy. He was at Scout camp when they whacked his dad.”
Shuffert grunted, “Why do we keep people like that around?”
“Now you're talking, Hoss,” said Harper. “Microwave 'em both.”
“Her, too?” said a slight man with a black beard. “Then who raises the child?”
“Hey, the cunt's been screwing the guy all along, gave him the knife. What kind of mother's that? You always was a softy, Mark. Being liberal, does that go with being kosher? It's genetic, or what?”
“Some of the most right-wing assholes I know are Jews,” said Deshowits. “What's your excuse, Chief Warrant?”
Antonio and Pedersen, the stewards, came out of the pantry and ranged themselves on either side of Ensign Paul. He stared at the coiled brown mass that had materialized in front of him. A single pink candle burned on top of it. “What the fuck's this?” he said, pushing himself away.
Harper leaned forward. “Looks like shit. Smells like shit.” He scooped a fingerful out. “Tastes like shit. Must be shit,” he announced.
“You bastardsâ”
“All together now.” And the table burst into:
“Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
You look like a monkey,
And you smell like one, too.”
Happy birthday to you,
You look like a monkey,
And you smell like one, too.”
“Gee, thanks,” muttered Paul.
“It's chocolate and peanut butter, sir,” Antonio offered. “Want a scoop of vanilla with it?”
A stocky man with lieutenant commander insignia came in. His blond hair stuck up on one side, as if he'd slept on it. “Hello, XO,” somebody said, and George Vysotsky half-smiled. “Happy birthday, Martin,” he said. His voice sounded hoarse.
“Did you hear the one about the bus driver?” Harper said to Deshowits.
“The what?”
“There's this bus driver, see? And it's the last part of his route,
it's real late, and finally there's nobody on the bus except this nun. So they're talking, and he's asking her where she's going. She says back to the nunnery, that she only gets to go out once every ten years. And he says, âThat sounds terrible. What's it like being a nun.' And she says, âOh, it's not that bad, except that.'”
it's real late, and finally there's nobody on the bus except this nun. So they're talking, and he's asking her where she's going. She says back to the nunnery, that she only gets to go out once every ten years. And he says, âThat sounds terrible. What's it like being a nun.' And she says, âOh, it's not that bad, except that.'”
“Except that what?” said Horseheads.
“That's what the driver said, âExcept that what?' And she says, âWell, sometimes we wonder. You know, about men.'
“âYeah?' says the bus driver.
“âAre you married?' she asks him.
“âNo, I'm not married,' the driver says.
“âWell, it's late, and we're all alone, and nobody will ever know. So why don't you show me what it's like?' the nun says.
“So he parks the bus and they go back where the bench seat is, and it's dark. And she says, âBut you know, we have to still be virgins when we go to Heaven. So I want you to do it the back way, all right?' So he does.
“So they're done and the driver's zipping up and he says, âYou know, I got to tell you something. I lied. I'm really married and got two kids.' And the nun smiles and says, âWell, I lied too. I'm a queer, on my way to a costume party.'”
Vysotsky glanced down the table at Harper, but he didn't say anything, except to Antonio: “One over easy, bacon.”
“Right away, XO.”
Harper launched into a long story about an ex-skipper of his on the USS
John
R.
Craig,
DD-885. “The old âhatchee-hatchee-go,' they called it. A chain-smoker, smoked filter tips, and when he was done with 'em, instead of stubbin' them out, he used to eat the butts. He only had two sets of khakis. He used to inspect them, when he got them from the laundry, for wrinkles along the seam, and if he found any, he'd have the supply officer up on the carpet and scream at him for hours.
John
R.
Craig,
DD-885. “The old âhatchee-hatchee-go,' they called it. A chain-smoker, smoked filter tips, and when he was done with 'em, instead of stubbin' them out, he used to eat the butts. He only had two sets of khakis. He used to inspect them, when he got them from the laundry, for wrinkles along the seam, and if he found any, he'd have the supply officer up on the carpet and scream at him for hours.
“He got pissed off at the XO once. Left him on Hilo Hilo, wouldn't let him back aboard when they sailed. Something about letting the Filipinos steal all the wing nuts. He used to put the officers in hack and take the chiefs waterskiing behind his gig. Once he ran it up on Diamond Head, he was drunk as shit. But it was okayânone of the hookers got hurt.”
Dan grinned at the ensigns and jaygees. “The old Navy,” he told them. “The chief warrant's your living link with it.”
“Yeah, I was on the fucking
Nautilus
with Captain Nemo ⦠. Pass the go juice, Ensign.”
Nautilus
with Captain Nemo ⦠. Pass the go juice, Ensign.”
Dan had another cup, too. He was starting to feel better as the aspirin kicked in. But he'd noticed it before in hangovers: Things occurred to you that didn't when your head was straight. Ideas
came loose and drifted around, made different connections than they usually did.
came loose and drifted around, made different connections than they usually did.
Like now ⦠He found himself musing as he looked down the table how they all seemed the same at first, and how then when you looked closer, all different. Horseheads with his baby face and hurt expression. Kessler, big and slow, in an old green cardigan with a piece of masking tape spotted with blood stuck to his chin. Harper, Deshowits, Vysotsky ⦠He thought about the military people you saw in the movies, in books, how one-dimensional they seemedâeither evil or heroes, but either way, without complexity or depth. It was probably true that they seemed simpler than civilians. They spent too much time with other men, for one thing. They didn't lead examined lives. But beneath that, they were as divided and contradictory as any other human beings.
He sipped coffee and looked thoughtfully around at them, feeling like them, yet unlike; one with them, yet separate. As he had all his life. Nor did he have the faintest idea why.
Â
Â
“NOW all hands to quarters for muster, instruction, and inspection. Officers' call,” said the 1MC, the general announcing system. As they clambered toward the weather decks, Dan shivered in the morning wind, wishing he'd worn a jacket.
The exec held officers' call on the 03 level, in the sheltered area between the stacks. The department headsâDan, Quintanilla, Cannon, Giordano, and Cashâaligned themselves in front. The others fell in behind them, spaced around antennas and lockers.
It was a clear morning, and he looked out past the black shoals of submarines and the gray bulks of other ships, over the sheds and cranes of Charleston Naval Shipyard. An oiler loomed in Dry Dock Five, her underwater hull hairy with weed. Beyond that sprawled North Charleston, one of the most depressing places he'd ever seen. To his left rose the spires of St. Michael's and the other churches.
And behind him was the Cooper River, sliding like melted silver slowly out to sea.
It felt as if he'd spent half his time aboard in shipyards. But that was usual for new construction. The first year saw you in and out constantly for tests and trials and availabilities. And since she was the last of her class,
Barrett
had a lot of catching up to do, installing backfit gear.
Barrett
had a lot of catching up to do, installing backfit gear.
Backfit was tearing perfectly workable new gear out and replacing it with something even newer. Over the years a class was in production, new gear didn't stop coming out. But instead of trying
to keep up, the Navy accepted the ship as it was originally ordered. Then, after commissioning, it put it back in the yard, tore out the gear that had to be changed, and installed the new stuff. It had always struck Dan as a no-brainer way of doing business.
to keep up, the Navy accepted the ship as it was originally ordered. Then, after commissioning, it put it back in the yard, tore out the gear that had to be changed, and installed the new stuff. It had always struck Dan as a no-brainer way of doing business.
But after a while, being in the yard got to you. First was the endless noise, a nerve-torturing cacophony of grinders, chippers, the shrill of warning bells, the hiss of compressed air. There were always strangers in the ship, and they left behind dirt and trash. They were stripping an old
Gearing-
class at the next pier, getting it ready to sell, and the wind carried grit and paint down every time it blew from the north.
Gearing-
class at the next pier, getting it ready to sell, and the wind carried grit and paint down every time it blew from the north.
Dan ran his eyes over her, feeling nostalgia and fear as his guts recalled
Ryan.
Ryan.
Suddenly, before he could throw up his guard, a black wedge drove itself silently between himself and the world. At its foot, a line of white gleamed like bared teeth: the bow of an aircraft carrier, towering sudden and tremendous out of what had been utter blackness.
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